How happy must thy parents be I call'd thee duteous; am I wrong? To Love!-for fiends of hate might see Oh! that my spirit's eye could see PROFESSOR WILSON. NIGHT. NIGHT is the time for rest; How sweet, when labours close, To gather round an aching breast The curtain of repose; Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the head Night is the time for dreams, When truth that is and truth that seems Night is the time for toil; To plough the classic field, Night is the time to weep; To wet with unseen tears Hopes that were angels in their birth Night is the time to watch; Ön ocean's dark expanse, To hail the Pleiades, or catch The full moon's earliest glance, Night is the time for care; Like Brutus 'midst his slumbering host Night is the time to muse; Then from the eye the soul Takes flight, and with expanding views Descries athwart the abyss of night Night is our time to pray; Our Saviour oft withdrew Steal from the throng to haunts untrod, - Night is the time for death; When all around is peace, Calmly to yield the weary breath From sin and suffering cease; Think of Heaven's bliss, and give the sign, To parting friends :-such death be mine! MONTGOMERY. THE FROSTED TREES. WHAT strange enchantment meets my view, So wondrous bright and fair? Has heaven pour'd out its silver dew On the rejoicing air? Or am I borne to regions new To see the glories there? Last eve when sunset fill'd the sky And sleepy mists came down to lie But now the scene is changed, and all The trees, last eve so straight and tall, And streams of living daylight fall The boughs are strung with glittering pearls, Seeming in wild fantastic whirls The work of fairy land. Each branch stoops meekly with the weight, As if some viewless angel sate Upon its graceful curves, And made the fibres spring elate, Oh! I could dream the robe of heaven, Beaming as when to spirits given, Had come in its stealthy flow, From the sky at silent even, For the morning's glorious show. ANON. FIELD FLOWERS. YE field flowers! the gardens eclipse you, 'tis true, Yet, wildings of nature, I dote upon you, For ye waft me to summers of old, When the earth teem'd around me with fairy delight, And when daisies and buttercups gladden'd my sight, Like treasures of silver and gold. I love you for lulling me back into dreams Of the blue Highland mountains and echoing streams, And of broken blades breathing their balm; While the deer was seen glancing in sunshine remote, And the deep mellow crush of the wood-pigeon's note Made music that sweeten'd the calm." Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune Than ye speak to my heart, little wildings of June; I thought it delightful your beauties to find Even now what affections the violet awakes; What landscapes I read in the primrose's looks; Earth's cultureless buds! to my heart ye were dear, Had scathed my existence's bloom; Once I welcome you more, in life's passionless stage, CAMPBELL. A SKETCH FROM REAL LIFE. I SAW her in the morn of hope, in life's delicious spring, A radiant creature of the earth, just bursting on the wing; Elate and joyous as the lark when first it soars on high, Without a shadow in its path,-a cloud upon its sky. I see her yet-so fancy deems-her soft, unbraided hair, Gleaming, like sunlight upon snow, above her forehead fair; |